I don't swing.
"Rex is hurt," I snarl. My voice is hoarse and scraped raw. "Rex is bleeding somewhere in this building. There's so much fucking blood, he could bedead,and Bells is gone and her stalker was in this room and without Rex—without?—"
"Bells found Rex at the cemetery," Phoenix says.
I turn my head.
"Nobody told her where the grave was. Nobody knew Rex even went there." His blue eyes hold mine. "She found him on instinct. On scent. On whatever the fuck connects mates when everything else falls apart."
The wordmateshits like a fist.
Because that's what we are. All four of us. Whether Rex has admitted it out loud or not, whether the bonds are marked or not, whether the world knows or doesn't.
Pack.
Mates.
"We find her the same way," Phoenix says. "We trust our instincts."
I look at the crumpled card in my fist. The roses scattered across the concrete floor, their petals crushed beneath my boots.
"Then let's fucking go."
CHAPTER 32
BELLS
Consciousness comes back in waves.
First, the cold. Stone floor, gritty under my cheek. The kind of cold that seeps through clothes and into bone.
Second, the taste. Chemical sweetness coating the back of my throat like someone poured cough syrup down a drain and I'm the fucking drain.
Third, thecage.
I open my eyes.
Gold bars.
Actual gilded bars, ornate and scrolling, wrought iron underneath the decoration. They curve overhead in an arch forming a massive birdcage, seven feet tall, maybe eight, bolted to a stone floor in what looks like…
An opera house.
I know this building.
The state opera house. The one Stephen owns a stake in, the one he rented out for Reverie charity events, the one with the underground rehearsal rooms and the rooftop helipad he bragged about at every fucking industry dinner.
The cage sits center stage of a small private rehearsal theater. Velvet curtains frame the wings. Crystal wall sconces on the walls. There's even a cushioned bench inside the cage, tufted red velvet, like whoever built this wanted the prisoner to becomfortable.
A gilded fucking cage.
For his songbird.
Rage hits me so hard my vision goes white.
I'm on my feet before my legs are ready and the world tilts sideways. I grab the bars. They don't budge. The lock is a heavy brass mechanism on the outside, well out of reach.
"Good morning."